she trilled musically. “Now don’t say anything, Peggy. I know he is considered a lad of parts. I heard two officers say that he would no doubt distinguish himself ere the war was over. ’Twas at Mrs. Knox’s kettledrum.”
“Now I must tell mother that,” cried Peggy, her momentary vexation at Harriet’s song vanishing. “He is our especial soldier.”
“Is he? And why?” asked Harriet. “Nay,” she added as Peggy hesitated. “’Tis no matter. I knew not that it was a secret. I care not. I like him not, anyway. Peggy, do you like me very much?”
“I do indeed, Harriet,” answered Peggy earnestly. “Why?”
“I am just heart-sick to hear from my father,” said Harriet, the tears welling up into her beautiful eyes. “It hath been so long since I heard. Not at all since I came, so long ago.”
“’Tis hard to get letters through the lines,” said Peggy soberly.
“I know it is, for I have tried,” answered Harriet. “The officers won’t send them. If you were away from Cousin David wouldn’t you make every effort to hear from him?”
“Indeed I would,” responded Peggy. “Harriet, has thee asked father to help thee? He would take the matter to General Washington.”
“General Washington does not wish to do it because I am British,” answered Harriet after a moment. “I know that they must be careful, but oh! I am so anxious anent my father, Cousin Peggy.”
“That is just as mother and I were about father last winter,” observed Peggy. “At last Robert Dale wrote us that he was a prisoner in Philadelphia, and I rode into the city to see him.”